When Gage set off after the mare again, Trevor shouted after him, “It won’t matter if you break your neck.”
I held my breath as Gage’s horse sped off ahead of us, daring to actually break into a gallop. I wanted to follow, but I knew to do so only meant suicide. If not for me, then for the beautiful roan beneath me. How easy it would be for her to step into a hole and snap a leg bone. Trevor would be forced to put her down.
Gage disappeared over a rise, and I was certain I didn’t breathe again until Trevor and I crested it to see him stalled at a fork in the pass. His gelding danced left and then right, uncertain which way to go. I could no longer hear the mare’s hoofbeats above the wind. The skin prickled along the back of my neck. I scanned the landscape around us, wondering if we were being watched, and whether the observers were friend or foe.
“Which way?” Trevor asked as something familiar caught my eye.
“I don’t know,” Gage replied through gritted teeth.
“We could split up.”
He nodded and was about to spur his horse onward when I spoke.
“It’ll do no good.” I nodded toward the hillock on our right. “I recognize that cairn. The path to the right splits again in another hundred feet. Are Trevor and I going to go separate ways as well?”
I knew the question was futile. Neither man was going to let me ride off into the desolation of the Cheviot Hills by myself, even if, as I strongly suspected, I was more familiar with its landscape than either of them.
“This is a waste of time,” Gage barked. “We’re all going left.”
He rode off before either Trevor or I could argue, and once again at too hasty a speed. Although the loose downhill terrain did force him to slacken his pace somewhat. We raced onward into the night, letting Gage choose which direction we went. I didn’t even offer an opinion, knowing the likelihood of our stumbling onto the correct track the horse had taken was growing slimmer with each fork and cross path we traversed. I did try to note which trail we followed, so that I could return us to Shotton Pass when Gage finally realized the futility of continuing our search, but with each mile farther we traveled, the lower my confidence became of even being able to do that.
I could only hope that Uncle Andrew or one of my cousins had picked up the pursuit once they realized how far we’d lagged behind. Maybe one of them had been able to track the sorrel mare to wherever her ultimate destination was.
Trevor seemed just as dejected as me, hanging back and allowing Gage to lead. That was, until we reached the edge of an expanse of land I strongly suspected of being a bog. The cloying musk of damp and moss and decay reached out to claw at my nostrils even through the biting wind.
“Gage, stop!” he yelled.
I watched in horror as the gelding stumbled, giving a piercing cry. Gage grappled with the reins before being pitched over the side of the horse into the brush beyond.
My heart leaped into my throat. “Gage!” I shouted as Trevor and I urged our mounts forward.
I couldn’t see him beyond the tall grass and scrubs. Had he broken a bone? Cracked his head open on a rock? There were a number of terrible possibilities.
Trevor and I pulled our horses to a stop and dismounted, still calling Gage’s name. Trevor grabbed the gelding’s reins and led him away from the spot where Gage had fallen, lest the horse trample him in his distress.
“Gage!” I cried again, and was finally met with an answering groan coming from the scrub to my right. I hurried forward to find Gage struggling into a seated position. His breath wheezed in and out of him.
I fell to my knees beside him and cupped his elbow to help him sit upright. “Are you hurt? Is anything broken?” I ran my hands over his extremities, searching for blood and fractures.
He brushed me off. “No. I’m well,” he rasped. “Just . . . got the wind . . . knocked out of me.”
“Is he hurt?” Trevor asked, coming to stand over us.
“I’m well,” Gage reiterated in irritation. “Just . . .” he lifted his hands, his face screwing up in disgust “. . . wet.” He flicked his arms outward, flinging brackish water off them.
I turned away from the cold spray and scrambled to my feet. Trevor leaned down to assist Gage in his attempt to stand.
Gage hobbled a few steps forward, favoring his right leg before his gait straightened out. He reached back to brush mud and water from the back of his greatcoat. “Is Titus injured?” he asked, looking for his horse.
“It doesn’t appear so,” Trevor replied. “But I checked him quickly. He seems to just be spooked.”
“Good,” he declared, approaching his mount with just a slight hitch in his step. “Then if we hurry, we might still be able to catch up with the mare.”
“No!” I gasped in unison with my brother.
“Just stop, Gage,” Trevor snapped, his patience clearly waning. “The mare is long gone.”